Clear to Lift

by Anne A. Wilson

The roof quakes beneath Will as he attaches a secondary rope to the main rope.

  “Kelly, when you get to the roof, stay hooked to the rope no matter what!” Will says. “Tawny, you, too!”

  There is no answer from Kelly, but I’m sure Tawny heard, as she, too, clips herself to the rope using the carabiner on her harness.

  Will runs to the corner of the building, paying out the new rope behind him, the one he has attached to the main rope right near the chimney. What is he—?

  He steps up to the roof’s ledge, and based on the direction he faces, it seems that he’s looking at the giant cottonwood tree downstream of the main lodge and adjacent to Cabin One—a new anchoring point.

  But the tree is at least twenty feet away, maybe twenty-five. There’s no way he can—

  He jumps.

  With the rope lying in coils over his shoulder, he plunges into the icy river.

  Will!

  My heart drops to the bottom of my stomach and stays there for several excruciating seconds as the river propels him downstream … and straight into the trunk of the cottonwood.

  The last thing I see is Will wrapping his arms around the tree—his body submerged, a body without a dry suit, only his head above the surface.

  “Okay, Hap’s got Jack cleared. He’s hooked up…,” Beanie says. “We have a thumbs-up … hoist is on the way up … he’s halfway up…”

  To my right, Kelly approaches the main lodge, scuttling upward, now about twenty feet from the roof. Craning my neck around, I see the reflection of Will’s white helmet through the branches of the cottonwood. In the time it took Beanie to hoist up Jack, Will scrambled up at least thirty feet above the water. His bright orange gloves visible, his arms fly, wrapping the rope around the trunk. Good god, how did he make it up there so fast?

  Kelly touches down on the shaky roof, but keeps herself attached to the rope as Will instructed.

  A splitting. A splintering. A thundering crrrrrrack!

  Like an invisible hand taking a knife to the middle, the main lodge splits in half, caving toward the center. If the rope remains looped around the chimney, it will pull Kelly, Tawny, my mom, and Celia with it.

  “Break the anchor! Tawny! Break it!” Will yells.

  Tawny pulls the main rope out of the carabiner that holds it to the chimney, freeing it. The rope snaps taut, Will’s new anchor at the cottonwood tree now holding the rope. In a blur of movement, Kelly and Tawny grab tight to the rope as the main lodge folds beneath them.

  40

  From cottonwood tree to Jeffrey pine, a distance spanning at least seventy yards, a rope holds four women above the raging Walker River. Actually, two ropes. The new rope Will tied to the giant cottonwood near Cabin One is tied to the original rope, and this, of course, is tied at the other end to the Jeffrey pine on the far side of the river.

  “Men are inside, we’re clear to go,” Beanie says, indicating that Hap and Jack are now in the aircraft.

  Boomer slides the bird across the river and swoops down immediately over my mom and Celia. As the helicopter twitches and yaws in the wind, I think how Will has just saved four lives. Had he not made a new anchor, when the main lodge went down it would have taken the rope with it, and everyone attached. They would have—

  But they didn’t, Ali. So get on with it.

  “Hoist is on the way down,” Beanie calls. “Steady … halfway down … steady. Hap’s at the women.”

  I scan from side to side as Beanie hooks up either Celia or my mom, I don’t know which. Two structures remain—Cabin Ten, just next to us, still with the family of three on its roof, and Cabin One, on the far side of the river. Will is in the cottonwood tree—a temporary safe haven next to Cabin One.

  “Temporary” is the key word, because this “haven” resides under a set of power lines. Will knows very well that we can’t lower a hoist cable through a set of power lines, so even though I can’t see him now, I’m sure he’s making his way to Cabin One for pickup.

  That settled, I tune in to Beanie, who’s calling that Hap and the first woman are at the skids. I twist in my seat to look out my window, watching as Beanie pulls Celia into the cabin.

  I glance at the gauges. Good power now. Thank you, winds. “Boomer, I think we can get Kelly and Tawny, too, after we’re finished here.”

  “Agreed. But the fuel,” he says, referring to the low-fuel lights that glow orange—lights that flicker so fast, they’re almost solid.

  “I know,” I say. “Let’s just do what we can do.”

  And just a quick two minutes later, Beanie is calling Hap and my mom into the aircraft. Thank god …

  Boomer rolls the aircraft to the left, flying across the river, and flares to a stop, pulling into a hover directly over Kelly and Tawny.

  As Beanie and Hap go to work to get the girls, I check on Will’s progress. I suspect he’s pacing on the roof of Cabin One now.

  But I search and squint, and the roof is empty. My eyes go back to the tree. I see his helmet. He hasn’t moved.

  Nor has he spoken on the radio since he directed Kelly and Tawny.

  Something curls in my stomach.

  “Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, over,” I say.

  I wait. And I wait …

  It’s then that I notice something I hadn’t before. Mojo. I never knew he was here, but he runs toward the water’s edge now, skidding to a halt just before the highway moves underwater. He maintains a staunch barking stance—all of his energy directed toward Will’s location, about thirty yards up-canyon from him.

  “Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, do you read, over?” I ask, as Beanie reports that Tawny is now in the aircraft and the hoist is on its way down again for Kelly.

  “Go ahead,” Will says, but something is off in his voice. Something terribly off.

  “Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, you need to get to Cabin One. We can’t hoist you if you’re under the power lines, over.”

  Wait. Wait …

  “Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, you need to get to Cabin One, over,” I say, attempting to keep my voice level, but the alarm bells are ringing.

  “Rescue Seven, I can’t feel my hands,” he says. I imagine him having to push the talk button on his radio with his wrist, just as I had to do when I couldn’t work my hands on Basin Mountain.

  But the resignation in his tone is so startlingly clear, my breath catches, my chest tightening. How long has he been in that tree now, soaked through, gloves probably useless, in bitterly cold rain, the wind howling? He can’t feel his hands, which means he can’t use them, or not effectively, anyway. Not in a way that would allow him to get to the roof of Cabin One.

  He knows he’s stuck. He knows we can’t get him. He knows …

  Shit! Think!

  “… I have a thumbs-up,” Beanie says. “Hap and Kelly are on their way up.”

  Beanie is leaning over the side of the cabin, his hand loosely guiding the hoist cable, as he gives the final calls to bring Hap and Kelly into the bird.

  “They’re at the skids,” Beanie says. “Stand by. Bringing ’em in.”

  “Guys, we have to figure out how to get Will out from under those power lines and over to Cabin One,” I say.

  “Rescue Seven, Whiskey One,” Will says, an uptick in his voice. “Can you get me a rope?”

  “Whiskey One, stand by.”

  A rope for what?

  “Hap and Kelly are in the bird,” Beanie says. “They’re strapping in.”

  “Beanie, can we get Will a rope?”

  “We have a rope, ma’am, but—”

  “Rescue Seven, Whiskey One, I have Jumars,” Will says. “If you can anchor a rope to the chimney and throw the other end to me, I think I can get over.”

  “I think I know what he wants to do, ma’am,” Beanie says. “I can hoist Hap down to Cabin One, and he can set it up.”

  “Do it,” I say as Boomer slides the aircraft to Cabin One.

  “Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, we’re lowering Hap now. He’ll set up the r
ope. Then we’ll have to leave to unload the pax and return for you, over.”

  “Whiskey One copies.”

  Boomer hovers, and Beanie lowers Hap to the roof of Cabin One. He secures one end of the rope to the chimney and throws the rest of the coil to Will—about a fifteen-foot toss.

  Hap gives us a thumbs-up that Will has received the rope, we hoist Hap back into the aircraft, and Boomer noses over and accelerates to our drop-off point, the same field at the edge of the canyon.

  “Beanie, what’s Will’s plan?”

  “Ma’am, he can use the Jumars to attach himself to the rope we threw over. I don’t know if you remember from rock climbing that day, but those things are like claws. Even if his hands aren’t working right, if the Jumars are clamped on one end to the rope, and on the other end to his harness, he’d be hands-free. Maybe he can swing over or something. That’s what I’m guessin’.”

  “As long as it gets him clear of the power lines, that’s all we need,” I say.

  My breaths come easier now that I know that Will has a rope and a plan.

  That is, until I look at the solid orange low-fuel lights. Boomer’s looking at them, too. We lift our eyes to meet each other’s, and he looks at me knowingly before shifting his attention back to the field, setting up his approach to land.

  “We have fuel,” I say. My voice, as steely as it’s ever been, belies the unease I feel deep in my gut.

  Low-fuel lights in a helicopter work as they do in your car. They flicker when you’re approaching a certain level of fuel, then glow solid when you reach some predetermined, almost-empty level.

  And that’s all well and good, but equating it with flight time is another matter altogether. Depends on burn rate.

  Solid low-fuel lights could indicate fifteen minutes of fuel remaining or five. I don’t know, because I’ve never purposely taken off with low-fuel lights to find out. You’re not allowed to. Strictly not allowed to.

  And six months ago, if you’d asked me if I’d take off with solid low-fuel lights, I would have said not only “No” but “Hell no!”

  But that was six months ago.…

  “We have fuel,” I repeat, probably trying to convince myself more than anyone else.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Boomer remarks with the hint of a grin.

  Boomer lands, five people run out from under the rotor arc, and I’m witness to the moment when my mother’s body stills, her face frozen in stunned recognition, as she realizes who stands next to her, who was with her in the helicopter all along—Jack.

  It’s loud, it’s sleeting, it’s cold, but Jack removes his helmet anyway, his eyes never leaving my mom’s. The seconds stretch, neither moving. And then the air contracts. They reach for each other at the same time, a crushing embrace.

  “Beanie, are we clear to lift?” Boomer asks.

  Snap. Blink. Back to now.

  “You’re clear, sir.”

  Boomer lifts, turning our searchlight on in the process.

  I shift my focus to the fuel gauge. It’s going to be okay. We have enough fuel. We can get this done.

  “Mono County Sheriff, any word on that fuel truck?” I ask, wondering why I’m even bothering. If we stopped to fuel now, it’s not like Will and the family could wait around for that to happen. If we’re going to get them, it has to be now.

  “Rescue Seven, that’s a negative,” Walt answers. “But I don’t think you’d have time anyway.” My thoughts exactly. “You’re gonna need to get back to Cabin One ASAP.”

  “Rescue Seven copies,” I say, shuddering. Has Will moved over yet? And if he has, will Cabin One continue to stand until we get there?

  “How’s Cabin Ten holding?”

  “Holding for now,” Walt answers. “Not great, but holding.”

  “Rescue Seven copies. Inbound to Cabin One.”

  Boomer raises the searchlight to shine on Will’s tree just as he leaps from it, Tarzan-style. The rope goes taut, the one that Hap tied off to the chimney, and Will arcs down and away from the power lines, his useless, orange-gloved hands wrapped loosely around the rope while his weight is held by the Jumars. He slams hard into the side of the building, his legs splashing in the water, and the current immediately rips him sideways, pulling, pulling …

  “He’s clear!” I shout, and Boomer is already flaring, making his approach to hover over him. Beanie is also ahead of me, calling that Hap is on the hoist and being lowered.

  Will uses his wrists, his elbows, struggling, clawing his way up, using the eaves of a second-story window to move himself away from the water.

  “We’re losing Cabin Ten!” Walt shouts. “We’re losing Cabin Ten!”

  “What?” I say.

  “The siding’s going! We can see it from here!”

  Will looks up, our eyes meet, and we know. He only has to shake his head to confirm.

  In the blink of an eye, the priorities have flipped, Cabin Ten now the higher risk.

  “Boomer, go!” I say, willing the words out.

  Boomer grits his teeth. He knows we have to do it.

  “Bringin’ Hap in,” Beanie says. “Sir, you’re clear to go. I’ll hoist him in on the fly.”

  Boomer starts forward, and seconds later Beanie calls that Hap is in the bird.

  “Copy,” I say, reeling from the shock of having to leave Will. I left him.…

  Stay focused, Ali. Stay focused!

  I look ahead, the father waving his hands wildly on the roof, the woman with a tiny bulge in her jacket. The baby …

  Two trees remain near Cabin Ten, which is good because it protects the cabin by breaking up the flow of water, but bad because they’re so close that we can’t one-skid. We’re going to have to hoist. But with a baby …

  “How are we gonna bring up the baby?” Boomer says. “A harness won’t work.”

  “Stand by,” Beanie says.

  I look over my shoulder, watching Beanie and Hap as they confer. Just behind them, an old equipment bag …

  “The equipment bag!” Beanie and I say at the same time.

  Hap pounces on the olive-green canvas bag, unzips it, and dumps the contents—ropes, harnesses, and slings. He and Beanie rush back to the main cabin door, the one that has remained open since we lowered the hoist the very first time at the garage.

  “Easy forward ten,” Beanie calls. “Easy forward five, easy forward three, two, one, steady. Steady right there. Sending Hap down … he’s halfway down … he’s on the roof.”

  It runs through my mind for about a nanosecond, the stringent engineering and testing that goes into the design and deployment of rescue harnesses, strops, ropes, and litters. All of them stress-tested, checked, and rechecked. And we’re about to throw an infant into an old equipment bag.…

  “Baby’s in the bag,” Beanie continues. “He’s hooked on the mom, they’re on the hoist, bringing ’em up.”

  Why it hits me now, I don’t know, but it’s honest-to-goodness dark. Maybe it’s that I’m craning my head to look back at Cabin One—to see if it’s still there—and I realize that I couldn’t see it anyway.

  “… they’re in the bird … sending the hoist back down…”

  Please be there. Please be there. Please be there. I harbor the same thoughts I had as I sped to the airport to find Will, before he boarded a plane. Please still be there.

  “… dad’s on, Hap’s on, bringing ’em up … halfway up … they’re in the bird … clear to go!”

  Boomer wastes no time, spinning and moving back to Cabin One, which now, thanks to the searchlight, I see still stands.

  We’ve got this. We’ve got this.

  I pivot in my seat briefly to look back into the aircraft cabin. The mother unzips the equipment bag, and a tiny head, topped with fine blond curls, peeks out, offering a curious smile.

  No way. A smile? That baby’s got to be destined to join a SAR team when he grows up.

  Quickly, I return to the task at hand, watching Boomer flare into position
over Will. Simultaneously, Beanie is sending Hap down on the hoist, no time to lose.

  The searchlight illuminates the side of Cabin One, and Will remains almost exactly where we left him.

  Thank god …

  His body still shakes, which is a good sign. After all he’s been through, his body could easily have shut down by now due to hypothermia, so the shivering is good.

  Hap continues his descent on the hoist cable, and he’s just above roof level when Will’s eyes suddenly widen. It’s the only warning I have before the crack! and the whump! as the cabin disintegrates, crashing over Will, and pulling him into the river.

  41

  I choke on my scream, unable to breathe. Oh, dear god. Will!

  “Mother fuck!” Boomer shouts.

  He shines the searchlight on the biggest pieces of the cabin, trying to follow.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he yells.

  I look frantically downward, seeing only a jumble of wood and brick tumbling in the mud-thickened, now-black water.

  This can’t be happening. It can’t be—Think, Alison! Think!

  The nose of the aircraft snaps to the left as the number-one engine revs up, whining—taking the load for the number-two engine. Shit! “We lost number two!” I say, watching the needle on the gauge for engine number two wind down to zero, flaming out, out of gas. Shit, shit, shit!

  Boomer reacts, dropping collective and nosing over to gain airspeed. He turns and lines up for the square-shaped field, where we’ve been off-loading our pax.

  It’s cold and we’re low, but I don’t know if we’re light enough to be single-engine-capable, not with the family on board. Which means Boomer will have to make a perfect no-hover landing.

  Which he does.

  Hap rushes the family out of the rotor arc, but it’s not until Boomer rolls off the throttle for the number-one engine, and the aircraft rocks as the rotors slow, and all motorized sounds die away, that the enormity of what has happened hits me. We only have one engine. We can’t take off now.

  The nauseated feeling overwhelms.

  No. No, no, no. Don’t give in to this. Don’t give up!

  I key the radio before Boomer switches off the battery. “Mono County Sheriff, Rescue Seven, request status of fuel truck, over.”